by Diane Capri
I expected that. Hell, I wasn’t happy, either. Neither was the poor man I’d hit with my car. Nobody was happy tonight. How could we be?
I squeezed my eyes shut against the unexpected sting of tears. I wouldn’t cry. I never cried in public, and I did not intend to start now. Besides, I had nothing to cry about. I was alive and well, unlike that poor man who had been lying under my car in the street…
Anxiety threatened to overwhelm me again. My heart raced, and my breath quickened. I deliberately took long, slow breaths. The last thing I needed was to give the hospital a reason to keep me here overnight. All I wanted was to go home.
“I need to check on some lab results, Mrs. Carson,” Dr. Parker said, scribbling something on the clipboard he held in his hands. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The industrial-gray curtains fluttered behind him as he passed through on his way out.
I turned to George. My tone was surprisingly flat despite the urgency raging through my system. “Have you heard anything about the man? Will he be all right?”
“I saw Chief Hathaway in the corridor. He’ll be down to talk to us.” George rubbed my chilled fingers, trying to warm them. It was no use. I might never be warm again. “He said the official word is that the man is in critical condition.”
“Do they have an ID on him yet?” I’d been asking this question since the incident. If I focused on the practical, I could function. The man’s identity seemed like a concrete step in the right direction.
“No.” George inhaled sharply and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “No wallet or anything in his suit. Officer Briggs said they put him at about thirty-five years old, give or take. That’s the best they’ve been able to do so far.”
I nodded miserably and said nothing more.
Dr. Parker returned. “Your breathalyzer tests, both at the scene and here in the ER, were negative. We won’t have full toxicology results on your blood tests for a while, but preliminary results are negative for controlled or illegal substances.”
Irritation bubbled inside me. They had rules. Protocols to follow. But I wished they’d quit concentrating on advising me and double down on the victim instead. Without a positive ID, his family couldn’t be notified. The people who loved and missed him would have no idea where he was. And we wouldn’t know why he’d walked in front of my car. Which was important, too. First things first.
Dr. Parker handed me final papers to sign, then discharged me. Cut and dried. Over and done. I slid off the table, my balance still a bit unsteady. It was past eleven o’clock, and I felt like the walking dead. Body achy and sore from the tension more than anything else, and spirit defeated.
George walked me out into the hall, his arm around my shoulders like a shield. I was more than grateful for his strength and quiet presence as we headed toward the mob of gawkers, legitimate media, and wannabes.
Thankfully, no cameras had been allowed inside, though I could see them through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows lining the front of the waiting area.
The waiting room was deserted except for a couple sitting in the corner. A woman with shoulder-length, medium-blond hair was crying softly on the shoulder of a large, attractive man sporting a dark buzz cut and a beard. Of course, I wasn’t the only one involved in a crisis tonight. I hoped these two would weather whatever storm they were passing through.
Tampa Police Chief Ben Hathaway waited for us near the front doors. George headed straight for him.
Ben was a burly guy, not fat, but not exactly a bodybuilder type, either. He was dressed in his usual rumpled navy-blue suit. He met my gaze directly, expression somber, and cleared his throat. “I thought you should know they called him.”
I understood what he meant. The doctors had pronounced him dead and stated the time. The man I’d hit with my car was dead.
It felt like the earth had vanished from beneath my feet. Thank God for George’s arm around me or I might’ve crumbled to the floor.
I’d killed a man.
Not intentionally. And not immediately. He’d been alive at the scene, right? I’d felt his pulse myself. Maybe.
But he was dead now. And I was at fault. One more thing I couldn’t fathom. Not yet.
“He was alive when they brought him in, wasn’t he?” My voice was barely more than a weak whisper.
“Don’t know all the facts yet. I’m sorry.” Ben shook his head, pulled out his buzzing cell phone, and frowned at the screen. “I need to get back. I’ll come by your place as soon as I can. Could be tomorrow, though. We still have a lot to do here and at the scene. Please go directly home and stay home until I get there. Please. Save all of us from having to defend ourselves against the publicity. You know how out of control these things can get, very quickly.”
I searched his face for hidden messages. “Are you saying I should call a good lawyer, Ben?”
“I’m not in a position to answer that question. But in your shoes, I’d certainly consider it.” With that, he walked away, leaving us to stare after him, stunned.
CHAPTER FIVE
Wednesday, November 9
12:25 a.m.
I was all too familiar with the rules in a vehicular homicide case. I knew I could be arrested and charged.
Except I hadn’t been drinking, hadn’t been speeding, hadn’t done anything reckless. Not in the least.
The man had leapt into the path of my vehicle with no warning.
And now he was dead. Dead.
The word kept ringing in my head like a gong.
I glanced toward the couple in the corner again. She wiped her eyes with a tissue while he rested his hands on her shoulders. She reminded me of someone, a singer.
Sheryl Crow—that was it. Pretty. Blonde. Willowy. She was obviously distraught, and I wondered why she was at the hospital tonight.
My trembling started anew as shock and exhaustion overtook me.
George must have sensed my growing dismay, or maybe I looked like I might pass out. He guided me to a row of plastic chairs and pulled me into one.
“Whatever happens, we’ll deal with this together. Like we always have. This was an accident. You weren’t at fault. Notice that Hathaway didn’t call the man a ‘victim.’ That means something. At the very least, he hasn’t made up his mind about who’s at fault here.”
I nodded. His voice held true conviction, for which I was grateful. I wasn’t feeling all that strong myself and having him to lean on helped.
His voice was angry when he said, “I won’t let CJ railroad you into anything. Don’t worry even a moment about that.”
I frowned as my mind snagged on his words. “Did CJ say something about that when you talked to him?”
“He’s too clever to tip his hand. And he didn’t have to say anything specifically. He’s had it out for you for a long time. You’ve always been too independent, too stubborn. Which is one of the many reasons I love you, by the way.” George smiled, nodded once, and then gave a derisive snort. “I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to end your career and replace you with someone more amenable.”
“Oh, God.” I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them again, I’d be awakening from nothing more than an exhaustion-induced nightmare.
No such luck.
I peered around the ER. Still the same old tile floors and antiseptic smell in the air. Guilt and sadness threatened to pull me under like a riptide.
I’d killed a man. Run him down with my car. Killed him. Dead.
I shook off the errant thoughts clogging my head and darting around the corners like cockroaches in the dark. Focus, Willa. Focus.
George squeezed my shoulder reassuringly then stepped toward the doors. They swished open, allowing a gust of humid, rain-scented air inside. “I’ll pull my car around to the entrance. You can wait here.”
“Why?” I squinted up at him, the beginnings of a monster headache coming on—whether from lack of food or overwhelming stress, I wasn’t sure. Probably both at this point. �
��It’s not that far to walk. Let me go with you.”
“It’s better if I drive around and pick you up.” He pointed outside, and I turned to see the vehicles circling the hospital parking lot. If we didn’t get out of here soon, we’d be stormed by gawkers, not all of them friendly.
My stomach lurched.
“Trust me, the last thing we need right now is a public flogging,” he said.
Reluctantly, I watched him walk through the automatic doors alone, head down, as he barreled toward the outpatient parking area.
George had experience avoiding nosy reporters, but these gawkers were different. The legitimate press had better things to do than follow me around, but the tabloids and social media junkies could be relentless.
Several gawkers were setting up cameras on the sidewalk as George walked past. Amateur video was worth a thousand words online these days, even if the video was poor quality.
One of the men was holding a microphone attached to his cell phone by a cable. He looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t see him well from this distance. He wasn’t one of the local reporters I knew. But he was wearing a jacket and tie, which meant he was overdressed compared to his compatriots standing around out there.
The couple in the corner of the waiting room stared at the developing circus, too. He whispered something into her ear, then dropped a quick kiss on her cheek before leading her across the room and through the double doors into the ER.
Headlights gleamed past, and then George was there, his massive black Bentley idling just beyond the throng. A small smile glanced across my mouth of its own accord. He’d acted like a knight in shining armor tonight, riding to my rescue. The least I could do was deserve him.
But I seemed to have left my courage with Greta back at the accident scene. I felt frozen in place.
I’d watched many a guilty defendant duck and cover their faces to hide from the cameras. Never thought I would need those skills, but perhaps I’d picked up some pointers.
After a deep inhale for courage, I squared my shoulders, clutched my impossibly tiny purse tighter, and hurried toward the exit.
The cold, rain-soaked air slapped my cheeks, rousing me from my post-accident stupor. Shouts issued from the gathered chroniclers, demanding to know everything, asking how I felt, seeking my side of the story.
I’d talk to the right people at the right time. For now, I ignored them all, making a dignified beeline for George and the refuge of his sedan.
Grace under pressure, Willa, my mother used to say. I did the best I could.
As I passed in front of a bank of photographers, I kept my head up and my steps even. My heart pounded loudly in my ears, drowning out all ambient sound.
George was holding the passenger door open. He waved for me to hurry.
A microphone with no legitimate network flag on it was thrust in front of my face. It was the young man wearing a coat and tie. He held the microphone as close to me as he could get and yelled, “Judge Carson, Rinaldo Gaines. The People’s Champion. Did you know that man? Did you deliberately hit him with your car?”
The question was so outrageous that it stopped me in my tracks. I looked straight at him, which meant directly into his camera lens, which he held in front of his face.
“Of course not. What an unbelievably tasteless thing to say, Mr. Gaines. Your mother must be ashamed of your behavior,” I said before I reined myself in.
“Probably not as ashamed as your mother is of yours,” he replied. Cheeky little bastard.
“You’re about the rudest young man I’ve ever met.” I gave him another full second of my patented Judge Willa Carson stare before I turned, hurried across the last few yards, and climbed inside the car, slamming the door behind me. George sped away before I’d even latched my seatbelt.
“Who was that reporter you were talking to?” he asked.
I was still shaking with anger at the man’s impertinence and lack of basic human decency. “That was no reporter. No news agency in this town would employ a man like that. I don’t know who he is, but I intend to find out.”
The entire evening felt surreal and scary and sickening. A man was dead. Most likely, my career was over. I’d be lucky to stay out of jail.
In fact, given the number of powerful people around town who’d like to see me removed from the bench, CJ was probably cackling gleefully like a demented munchkin at that very moment.
I scowled as overwhelming doom swelled in my chest.
George reached over and took my hand as we headed across Plant Key Bridge at last. “Don’t worry. We’ll get through this. I promise.”
I smiled weakly and nodded. But I knew he was wrong. I’d killed a man. There was no way to erase that reality.
And I probably hadn’t seen the last of Rinaldo Gaines, either.
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, November 9
10:00 a.m.
The next morning, I rolled over slowly, wincing as my sore muscles protested, and peered at the clock beside the bed. Ten a.m. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept so late. I sat up and rubbed my tired eyes. I’d collapsed as soon as my head hit the pillow last night, but I still felt exhausted. The emotional turmoil gurgled inside my veins like hot lava.
Half awake, my mind indulged magical thinking. Last night never happened. I’d turn on the news this morning, listen to the local weather report, take the dogs for a run around the island, have breakfast, drive Greta to work. The same as always.
But as I came awake, I knew nothing was the same. The yellow and purple bruises on my chest from the snap of Greta’s seatbelt were a vivid, painful reminder.
I’d killed a man with my car. There was no way to undo that reality, and things were likely to get a lot worse. This might be the last morning I would awaken in my own bed for a good long time.
Suck it up, Willa.
Yeah, yeah.
I threw the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed.
George had left a note on the nightstand. He’d called my office. Advised Augustus, my judicial assistant, that I wouldn’t be at work because I’d been involved in a car crash. He’d offered no further details. He didn’t need to, given that the story was all over the news.
Augustus had promised to clear my schedule for the day and postpone everything on my calendar until the end of the week.
After a hot shower to soothe my aches and pains, I tugged on a pair of comfy sweats and wandered into the kitchen. George was fielding calls while he made breakfast. Omelets with cheese, ham, and peppers, judging by the ingredients on the counter. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and twenty-four-hour fasting wasn’t my preference.
George looked over at me as I poured coffee into a big mug. “Good, you’re up. Ben’s on his way over.”
I stopped mid-sip and stared at him. We’d waited for Chief Hathaway until midnight before we gave up and went to bed. I nodded.
George looked as exhausted as I felt. Dark circles rimmed his kind hazel eyes, and the fine lines at the corners were more pronounced than usual. We’d been through a lot already. You’d figure by now the universe might give us a break.
No such luck.
His cell phone buzzed, and he shook his head. “Carson.”
With the phone pressed to his ear, he shrugged and lowered the burners on the stove before he walked away.
I slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops, gathered our Labrador retrievers, and hurried down to the beach to give Harry and Bess a quick romp in the waves.
There were advantages to owning your own island. Privacy was the best one. I hoped the fresh air and exercise would help clear my head. But as I watched the dogs frolic in the water, last night’s events refused to be shoved aside, which only made me tenser.
The moment of impact replayed like a video loop in my head. The dull thud of his body hitting Greta. That one loafer sticking out at an odd angle in front of her tires.
I whistled for the dogs and walked farther
down the beach. Maybe a bit more distance from the house would separate us from the ghastly memories, too.
Didn’t happen.
Next, I tried to focus on work instead.
Given my packed docket, I shouldn’t have time to dwell on anything else. Hard-hearted as that sounded, keeping busy was often the best distraction. My caseload of nearly a thousand active cases meant there was more than enough on my plate to keep me out of trouble.
Yet, I dwelled anyway.
Before I realized it, the dogs and I had walked too far. Ben would arrive any minute. I didn’t want to greet him in my pajamas.
I whistled and turned to jog. Harry and Bess caught up easily and trotted alongside me as we headed home.
Now was the time to hear whatever Chief Hathaway had to say and answer his questions. The facts were firmly consigned to history and couldn’t be changed. The consequences would fall as they may. Next week, I’d be all but chained to my bench every day as the Stingy Dudes trial droned on and on, marching way too slowly toward completion. Which didn’t matter really, since the next trial would slip into place when that one finished. The line of cases never ended. I’d always viewed the workload as total job security for me, even as the weight threatened to crush me daily.
A helicopter flew overhead, penetrating my concentration. My heart skipped a beat. These days, privacy was a myth, even on a private island like Plant Key. Helicopters and drones invaded our solitude way too often. Now they had a reason to focus on us.
The tabloid headlines wrote themselves. Flamboyant Federal Judge…Wife of Celebrity Restauranteur George Carson…Kills Pedestrian.
Yep. Too juicy to ignore.
I cringed and squinted up as the helicopter flew closer.
Was that a person leaning out the door with a camera? Or was I imagining things? What were they looking at? I turned fast, but only lush tropical foliage and white sand stretched behind me, with the city in the background. Same as always.
So the only thing to see here and now was me. They were filming me. Running on the beach of our private island with my dogs the day after I’d killed a man. I cringed because I knew exactly how they’d make me seem. Cold, uncaring.